words of doom.

If Gladys failed her, she knew of no other place in that great and evil
city where she could earn her bread. She even felt a trifle despondent
as she retraced her steps to her garret, but, trying to throw it off,
she set herself immediately on entering the house to inspect her
wardrobe. This was a most interesting occupation, and, after much
deliberation, she took her best black skirt to pieces, and proceeded to
hang it as nearly as possible in the latest fashion. Then she had her
hat to retrim, and a piece of clean lace to sew on her neckband. At four
o'clock her last candle expired in its socket, and she had to go to bed.
At the grey dawn she was astir again, and long before the brougham had
left Bellairs Crescent with Gladys, Teen was waiting, tin box in hand,
on the platform of St. Enoch's Station.

Mrs. Fordyce accompanied Gladys to the station, and when Teen saw them
she felt a wild desire to run away. Gladys Graham sitting on a chair in
the little attic, talking familiarly of the Hepburns, and Gladys Graham
outside, were two very different beings. Gladys glanced sharply round,
and, espying her, smiled reassuringly, and advanced with frank
outstretched hand.

'Ah, there you are! I am glad to see you. Mrs. Fordyce, this is
Teen--Christina Balfour. I must begin to call you Christina; I think it
is much prettier. Isn't this a pleasant day? The country will be looking
lovely.'

Mrs. Fordyce smiled and bowed graciously to the seamstress, but did not
offer her hand. Her manner was kind, but distant; her very smile
measured the gulf between them. Teen felt it just as plainly as if she
had spoken it in words, and felt also intuitively that her presence
there was not quite approved of by the lawyer's wife. That, indeed, was
true. There had been a long and rather warm discussion over the little
seamstress that morning in Bellairs Crescent, and Mrs. Fordyce had
discovered that, with all her gentleness and simplicity, Gladys was not
a person to abandon a project on which she had set her heart.

'My dear Gladys,' she took the opportunity of whispering when Teen was
out of hearing, 'I am more than ever perplexed. She is not even
interesting--nothing could be more hopelessly vulgar and commonplace.'

Gladys never spoke.

'Do tell me what you mean to do with her,' she pursued, with distinct
anxiety in her manner.

'Don't let us speak about it, Mrs. Fordyce,' said Gladys rather coldly.
'It is impossible